cor blimey, colour me any colour you like ! ... i'd never heard of jean-paul bourdier until five minutes ago

http://catherinelarose.blogspot.co.uk/2013/06/jean-paul-bourdier-photography.html

a new carrier bag for the loved one ... made in the lleyn peninsula by her good friend dizzy

what are friends for ? rock the pueblo, jorge !

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=CpZjvbSC9_M

a quote from walter benjamin ...

To historians who wish to relive an era, Fustel de Coulanges recommends that they blot out everything they know about the later course of history.

There is no better way of characterizing the method with which historical materialism has broken. It is a process of empathy whose origin is the indolence of the heart, acedia, which despairs of grasping and holding the genuine historical image as it flares up briefly. Among medieval theologians it was regarded as the root cause of sadness.

Flaubert, who was familiar with it, wrote:

‘Peu de gens devineront combien il a fallu être triste pour ressusciter Carthage.’*

* ‘Few will be able to guess how sad one had to be in order to resuscitate Carthage.’

The nature of this sadness stands out more clearly if one asks with whom the adherents of historicism actually empathize. The answer is inevitable: with the victor. And all rulers are the heirs of those who conquered before them. Hence, empathy with the victor invariably benefits the rulers.

Historical materialists know what that means. Whoever has emerged victorious participates to this day in the triumphal procession in which the present rulers step over those who are lying prostrate. According to traditional practice, the spoils are carried along in the procession. They are called cultural treasures, and a historical materialist views them with cautious detachment. For without exception the cultural treasures he surveys have an origin which he cannot contemplate without horror. They owe their existence not only to the efforts of the great minds and talents who have created them, but also to the anonymous toil of their contemporaries.

There is no document of civilization which is not at the same time a document of barbarism. And just as such a document is not free of barbarism, barbarism taints also the manner in which it was transmitted from one owner to another. A historical materialist therefore dissociates himself from it as far as possible. He regards it as his task to brush history against the grain.

Ennit ?

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Wikipedia:WikiProject_Trains/ICC_valuations/Chicago,_Burlington_and_Quincy_Railroad


EDITOR'S NOTE :
without specious and spurious links there'd be no entertainment ...

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=JZ9U4Cbb4wg

to quote more than one dearly departed friend ... i am NOT an addict ! i can give it up ANY time i like !

i fancy a swim in dorset before summer's end ...

creatures of habit ...

long before sunrise, there is a minute's disorientation and delay whilst i am preparing Her-indoors' first cup of earl grey ... her old porcelain mug with the chintzy roses has been given the elbow and i have a sleep-walker's blind spot for the new one with lickle birds ... and i, being born a creature of hard-to-break-habit, will never ever ever be able to throw out my old tea-stained velasquez ... eventually the tea gets made and the new cup stands cooling in the near darkness besides her sleeping shadow

stuff on the south bank

stuff ... nearer to bearhurst than battenhurst

wannabe philosophers seem to believe that if you look at life hard enough then some kind of theme will emerge ...

irresistible ... should we take our own picnic ?

http://www.londonopenhouse.org/public/london/find/detail.asp?loh_id=19027

http://www.waterprojectsonline.com/case_studies/2012/Thames_Beckton_Odour_2012.pdf

i am inordinately proud of this facebook greeting from richard nye ...

3BT ... no ! 4 !!!

Four swallows shoulder to shoulder on a wire

A blackbird feeding her enormous squeaking fledgling

In the back of the bus, but not together, four smart young wimmin with freckles and ginger hair

Lastly, lots of cards and texts and e-mails for my birthday ... thanxxx you'all

like waving a rag rug at a bull ... some landscapes inspire surprising art works ...

... its the white horse at cherhill. silly ! fresh from the magic fingers of sheila evans, duchess of bancffosfelen

strongly drawn pub sign in edenbridge

The question of ... what was the question ?

Yesterday afternoon, at the end of quite a long and unnecessarily physical shift, I parked the truck and took the day’s paperwork up to the office.  Then I hung the keys of the truck on a little hook in the keys’ cupboard.  

Finally, as if somnabulent, I neatly hung my own set of house keys on the adjacent hook, and went home without them.  Hmmm !   

Today, a customer named Paul recommended the services of an organization in Switzerland named Dignitas.  

I could see his point.

It’ll be OK, I told him, as long as they have nice curtains; you know the sort of thing …

We thought a little motto embroidered on some fancy scroll-work might look nice ...

"Diende tempore felicius"

she's just got back from belgium ...

if only putney heath were fenced-in, then we might apply to the trustees for pannage

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Pannage

THOU SHALT NOT FRACKING MESS WITH THE WATER TABLE !!!

http://www.theguardian.com/environment/2013/aug/11/texas-tragedy-ample-oil-no-water

i walked, no, RAN away from education three times ... but am still interested

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=BEsZOnyQzxQ

i suppose that icarus fell out of a non-euclidean sky

Lower and Upper Grosvenor Gardens are two small triangular gardens laid out to complement Thomas Cundy's French Renaissance style houses. In the Lower Garden little remains of the elaborate railings of the 1864 layout and it was remodelled in 1952 as a memorial to Anglo-French understanding and a tribute to the Free French. It has an elaborate fleur-de-lys format of paths, and flowerbeds with bedding displays, the central bed in the form of a fleur-de-lys, topiary and a tiered device for the display of ivies. Two shell and pebbledash lodges studded with molluscs, with pediments on all sides, were brought over especially from France, and between them there was once a parterre. An equestrian statue of Marshall Foch of c.1930 stands at the entrance.

http://www.londongardensonline.org.uk/gardens-online-record.asp?ID=WST059

barbed wire bangles ... i can't believe they're not welsh !

it's easy when you know how ... steven hough, ennit ?

http://www.bbc.co.uk/programmes/p01cphx0

... you might lose yourself in the proms site for the rest of the summer ... and half the winter, too, if they didn't take it down eventually

many of you will be shocked to learn that the rules of cricket have not yet been published in a reliable translation for those who speak the polish language

cabmen's shelter at hungerford bridge again, with a little tv fillum from the BBC

http://www.bbc.co.uk/news/magazine-23591682

once upon a time, my mum took me to see the red balloon at the athelstan cinema

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=e2Y1tRBOXfA&feature=youtu.be

now that i'm a double-grampy i may need to re-schedule my old age ...

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Pn2-b_opVTo

winifred atwell's "poor people of paris" ... edith piaf's "la goulante du pauvre jean"

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=eY_PabVEUbY

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=NVa2ejg6YuQ

Manel : Chanson d’Hirondelle

Un beau matin au réveil
j'ai entendu le chant harmonieux
d'un oiseau posé
sur le toit de ma maisonnette.

Moi, voyez-vous, je suis fou
des bêtes et des oiseaux
de ce pays, et j'écoutais
les trilles de I'oiselet.

Mais dans mon coeur se mit à résonner
la douce voix qui chantait :
Manel, semblait-elle crier,
sors de chez toi, je veux te parler !

Je saute alors de mon lit
et m'exécute sans tarder,
et dans I'oiseau que j'aperçois
je reconnais une hirondelle.

C'était bien après l'été
quand la bise du Nord
fait fondre sur le Roussillon
pluie, neige, givre et froidure.

Une triste saison où les oiseaux,
hirondelles et martinets,
fuient vers des pays plus chauds
au printemps éternel.

Mer, tours et clochers,
rivières, monts et plaines,
vous ne verrez plus leurs ailes,
vous n'entendrez plus leurs cris !

Ce jour là, pluie, vent, froidure
s'étaient déchaînés tous à la fois,
et bien des oiseaux étrangers
furent trouvés morts sur les chemins.

Mais mon oiseau faisait fi
de la tempête.
Il ne cessait de me saluer,
de sautiller et de chanter.

Pourquoi chantes-tu ? La tristesse a envahi la nature. 

Le Roussillon ne te plaît-il pas ?
As-tu perdu ta nichée ?

Manques-tu de nourriture ?
Tu sais, ici nous avons de tout,
même de I'amour. Ne dit-on pas :
respectez I'hirondelle, c'est l'oiseau de Dieu !

 Viens ! Si tu ne veux pas partir
tu ne souffriras pas du froid,
avec plaisir je prendrai soin de toi ;
et tu auras un doux lit de coton.

De L'Albère jusqu'à I'étranger
le voyage est très, très long,
et bien risqué le chemin,
tu n'en verras peut-être pas la fin !

Pour te mener si loin
tes ailes seront courtes,
tu tomberas dans la mer
et ne verras jamais plus Saint-Martin.

Viens chez moi. J'aime les gens, les oiseaux,
bêtes, moutons et agneaux,
chiens, chats, écureuils et grands ducs,
j'ai même nourri deux loups.

Manel, me répond I'oiselet,
tout ce que je fais c'est pour toi.
Je ris, je joue, je chante et sautille
pour l'enfant de Saint-Martin.

J'ai vu tes travaux, tes bois,
fontaines, tours et abris,
et tout cela m'a ravi ;
je viens te féliciter.

J'ai vu la tour de Manel ;
on dirait qu'elle touche le ciel :
le brouillard lui sert de trône
et l'éclair de couronne.

A ses pieds s'étend la plaine
du Roussillon et d'Espagne,
leurs frais villages,
leurs jardins, vignes et prés.

De 1à haut on peut voir, à gauche,
une source près d'une clairière,
sur un col entre deux sommets :
c'est la Reine des Sources.

En ce lieu enchanteur
on trouve l'air pur, la fraîcheur,
une eau blanche comme de I'argent,
I'ombre et le repos y sont excellents.

Quand trempée, sale et lasse,
je me suis lavée dans son eau,
j'y ai perdu la faiblesse
pour en tirer force et beauté.

Ce matin quand je passais
un écriteau pendait à un pin ;
on pouvait y lire : Beauté du Pays,
la Reine est un paradis !

J'ai vu, et tout cela m'enchante,
le bois de la fontaine ferrugineuse,
la Font d'en Manel,
et ton jardin plein de fruits et de fleurs.

Ta main, main d'enchanteur
a fait, comme le Créateur,
d'un désert une oasis,
de l'Albère un paradis.

Maintenant je dois partir,
je ne peux rester plus longtemps,
le temps est froid et mortel
j'aspire à un pays plus chaud.

Bien sûr, c'est un long voyage ;
mais je ne crains ni mer,
ni froid, ni tempête ;
je suis chargée d'une mission.

Je m'en vais au pays de Dieu,
pays où le juif ingrat
a tué Notre Seigneur ;
je vais lui parler de toi.

 Je lui demanderai qu'il te donne la santé,
une longue vie, et surtout
qu'à ta mort il t'accueille dans son ciel.
Adieu, donc, adieu Manel.

Ceci dit, dans les airs l'oiseau s'enfuit,
s'enfuit et fuit encore.
Un cri s'échappe de mon coeur :
Cri de joie, cri de douleur.


http://lalbere.net/queconnaitre/Manel.htm

james turrell at the guggenheim

guggenheim's website has a useful little fillum  ... but i wish they hadn't bothered with the other talking heads

http://www.guggenheim.org/new-york/exhibitions/on-view/james-turrell

http://www.architizer.com/blog/a-new-james-turrell-installation-for-the-guggenheim/media/462256/

alvi and his new bruvver ... "baby noa"

all the world's a shallow grave ... walter benjamin must have known that

Once upon a time, I went to Barcelona on a train from Madrid, where I had done some work and had four days left before the plane back to Ingerllund.  I had not much money, but in those days Spanish train journeys were still very cheap.  I looked around Barcelona and liked the city but it was at the end of winter, and I was cold and wet and very tired after a long day walking around with a heavy bag.  For some reason I didn’t want to stay there, so I took a late train towards Paris and got off, just after midnight, just short of the French border, at Port Bou.  It was only a short walk to the beach.  To my surprise, a little hotel was still open, and so I slept there.  In the room was a souvenir leaflet of a recent festival celebrating the work of Walter Benjamin.  I had never heard of him.

Today, whilst checking out John Coulthart’s erudite website, I discovered this fillum about the very same man, which I now commend.  The little hotel I stayed in was the one glimpsed in the fillum.  The ramblings of forgotten intellectuals are not everyone’s “cup-of-tea”, I know.  But what do I know ?

https://vimeo.com/26821212

http://www.johncoulthart.com/feuilleton/2013/07/31/one-way-street-fragments-for-walter-benjamin/

http://www.theguardian.com/books/2012/apr/27/hero-walter-benjamin-elif-shafak

rogelio bernal andreo ... fabulous, even fantastic

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Rogelio_Bernal_Andreo

https://fbcdn-sphotos-h-a.akamaihd.net/hphotos-ak-frc3/977742_518693638178650_78763290_o.jpg

http://geomaps.wr.usgs.gov/parks/yos/topobk.html